The Drabbler's Lexicon
by Alexandria Paige
Summary: After much heartache and delay Alexandria Paige presents various and sundry drabbles for the dear reader. First Series: The Bent AU: Monsters have fangs, claws, and brute strength. Men have wit, chemicals, and sometimes an element's aid. Always and forever. But such lines were made to be crossed... If they existed in the first place.
1. Bent AU: Seas, Embers, and Dreams

AN/ I still live! Long story short: I'm a slow writer to begin with, and easily distracted. Then my school nearly got taken out by a tornado. No one died, though a few people came out of whatever room they were in and found the rest of their house gone. My family went to church a bit out of town (we left right after the first, milder tornado warning was lifted, and came back wondering if our house was still there. Our street was fine... The school football field? Not so much. But no one died, and there were few major injuries. Then I acidentily deleted the latest chapter of Of Monsters and Men. The story then fell into a plot hole with spikes of writer's block at the bottom. Then I fried my lap top: all this was written on my I-Pod, so please forgive some of the rougher edges. But if you see a plot hole, analyze it without mercy. I don't want to loose any stories the same way twice!

In Marine Societies, bending made and broke dreams.

"Hullo, Rossamund," Master Cornelius said. Rossamund smiled winsomely and echoed the greeting. Master Cornelius, like most retired, waterbending vinegroons, stood hunched with age. His wrinkled, dark skin had fascinated Rossamund ever since he was able to distinguish between persons. While life on the vinegar waves had aged him before his time, the master had no sea-sting welts to mar his unusually swarthy complexion Cornelius, in turn, tolerated the attention with no little amusement, joking that such fine notice of detail would make for a master sleuth. Rossamund had, when he was smaller, asked how he could be a sleuth when he was going to be a vinegroon. Cornelius had laughed and said, in that case, he would be an excellent lookout. He didn't tell him he had just as great a chance of having to settle for sleuthing as not. Such realism had no place in childish certainty.

"Ready?" the master asked, drawing a globe of water. The liquid sang beautifully in his hands, faint strains whispering of ever-in-motion and bearing-up-those-that-would-travel-with-the-flow. Rossamund nodded, and reached: this was his third and final Test. He already knew, by painful, jarring experience, he could not match the tune, but Master Fransitart had told him to try anyway. His notes screeched loudly, horribly out of key, in heart and ear. But Master Cornelius was strong, and did not flinch. After a small eternity, he finally said, "Enough." Rossamund gladly stopped. The master scrawled something in his book and waved him on.

The foundlingdry's only other bending master beckoned with a quick, impatient gesture. Master Darrow always appeared with a kind of frazzled chaos on his heels and a sense of destruction barely thwarted. As master over the firebending children, he lived in constant expectation of a summon about some sort of flaming pandemonium. Rossamund had not spoken to him before, but knew the sound of his bending quite well. Especially once-burning-now-smoke. The candle flame burned independent of any bending, but Rossamund still heard the whispering symphony of what-is-and-what-could-be.

"Begin," The master curtly ordered. Like before, Rossamund couldn't bend with the flame. Like before, Master Barrow called a halt not soon enough. "Go," the master nodded towards the door. Rossamund gladly quit the scene, ready to start the day free of lessons.

He wasn't a bender, not an earth bender: next week the visiting earth Master would confirm it. He had nothing to worry about.

His dreams were safe.


	2. Bent AU: Song

Master Fransitart asked the question two weeks after the second bending tests, as Master Craumpalin left them to tend to a bout of firebending gone bad. "Why don't you play with yer yearmates anymore?" Rossamund didn't look away from the multihued vapors floating above Crauplin's chemistry. The powder whispered of fortify-flesh and cleanse-wounds, even in the air. "They're too loud. And off-key," he said. "Off-key?" Fransitart asked, bemused. "Mm-hm. They don't bend the right notes." Rossamund grimaced at the memory. While they weren't really suppose to bend without a Master, no one actually punished anybody except the firebenders for it. The resulting headache drove Rossamund to the refuge of long-forgotten nooks and crannies. "They need to listen better." Fransitart set down the vials he'd been sorting with a chink. "Ye... hear bending?" He murmured, too low for Rossamund to hear. A long moment passed, filled with an uneasiness Rossamund couldn't identify. "Lad, I don't think ye should tell folk how their bending sounds." Rossamund slowly, solemnly nodded. "They're really huffy about their bending," he agreed. "And jealous about who can do what. I don't want to make them mad." Fransitart smiled, and that awful tension went away. "Of course ye wouldn't." 


	3. Bent AU: Not in Flames, But Stone

Three things happened on Rossamund's ninth Bookday: 1) Gosling ate his portion of boschenbread. (Not surprising.) 2) Gosling tried to punch him. (Typical.) And 3) Rossamund bent a stone wall out of a staircase. (Earthshaking. Literally.) - Rossamund curled into a tighter ball of misery in one of Madame Opera's overstuffed chairs. She offered a strained, suspicious smile, but no more: history held one or two 'late bloomers' who bent at seven, but never at nine. He was suppose to be safe! He'd already cried long and hard for his future on the vinegar waves, but he still sniffled as the Earthbender stared incredulously. The testing stone had pulverized under Rossamund's new-found power. The elder earth-bender had looked nearly as shocked as he felt. Some central pillar had been yanked away, and all he wanted to do was hide in some secluded nook for a few centuries. None of adults found that a good idea, for some bizarre reason. Master Fansitart had laughed, like he thought he was joking. The man slowly stroked the tip of his mustache in obvious habit and hmmed thoughtfully. "Madame," he said, voice slow and steady as a mountain rising. "Have you noticed that the majority of your benders are of water, and the minority of earth?" Madame Opera nodded stiffly. "Of course," she said. "Boschenberg is a river city." Yes, I know that the sky is blue, her expression read, so would you get on with it, please? The earthbender- Rossamund hadn't caught his name- sighed. "Indeed, and in more than its proximity to water." Something part mournful and part spiteful flash in his face and voice. "Simply put, a city's philosophies influence its children's bending. That's why not all river villages have water benders." Rossamund tried to picture such a place, and failed. How would the people get anything done without waterbenders to rout the river to power mills or water crops? And how could ideas change bending? "So I've heard," the Madame sniffed. She obviously thought very little of such backwards river villages. The earth bender offered a resentful glare. Rossamund wondered in rare acumen if he hailed from such a river town. Maybe it was being surrounded by water instead of earth had made him so snarly. "Water is change and innovation: constant movement. Earth is stability. Children generally can't express both in equal amounts. So when their bending manifests, they have no confusion about what to bend. But very, very occasionally, a rare soul will have equal affinity for both. Until one attribute prevails, that person reaches for two elements and misses both. Obviously, this doesn't generally continue for very long." Rossamund had sunk too deep into thought to notice the earth bender's suspicious gaze. He thought back to the almost-fight: if he had evaded Gosling as he normally did, instead of facing him, would he have bent water instead? If he had attacked, would he have bent fire? "Could I still bend the other element?" he asked. Madame Opera and the earth bender looked at him in bemusement, then horror. "Perhaps," the man finally said. "But probably not for long, if at all. I wouldn't recommend trying, either: Everymen do not change their very natures like an ill-favored scarf." Rossamund didn't understand Madame Opera's grim look in the slightest. - Rossamund chided himself for even asking as he listened to his dorm-mates' quiet snores. Everymen bent one of the three elements, or none at all. He knew that in his stuff and bones. He shouldn't have asked, much less hoped. He still dreamed of airbenders swooping on wings of silk and steel as he was cradled by a beautiful liquid melody he thought, for once, he could understand. AN/ Am I the only one to think that bending could have some... Disturbing implications? Thinking about all the data one would have to constantly crunch to keep an element under control makes my head hurt. Then there are the social standards and stigmas that would be placed on benders. Stress amplifies all kinds of illnesses and disorders: there are more benders with mental or personality disorders, count on it. Now think of a bender loose in the middle of a psychotic break. Madame Opera and the earth master have plenty of reason to be worried. My head-canon also has that rossamunderlings have a much higher chance of being at least a little bit insane, on top of the sheer trauma of not really belonging with men or monsters. At best, they have two sets of DNA that haven't intersected in at least centuries. At worst they have a DNA cocktail coming from who knows how many places, which may or may not fit together at all, much less right. Now I just gave them bending. ...Why must I be so cruel to the characters? 


	4. Sun and Stars AU: Talent Search

Yet another series! Summary: It's like MBT in SPACE! mets X-Men: People have mutant powers, and monsters are aliens. Or are they...? Dun dun duuuh! And here is the (belated) disclaimer: If I owned the books, they would be set in SPACE! and still be moldering on my thumb drive. Seriously, I have enough trouble finishing my English essays. - Oculus sighed and rubbed burning, crimson and blue eyes. The e-document slowly blurred back into focus. "No luck?" The Marshall wearily asked, gesturing to the tablet. "None," Oculus agreed. "Finding another Lamplighter this late in the hiring season is a long shot at best." He snorted. "At this point, I'd be happy just to find someone marginally competent and without a criminal record." The Marshell hmmed. "What do we have?" Oculus taped the minimized windows. "The five remaining Class Zeros have failing marks, physicals, or both. The Council must be estatic about their filled quotas. We have four Class Ones just barely within required perimeters, and four Class Twos with only low marks. All the Classes Three through Five are mentally or physically unfit for any work." "Pull up the Classes One and Two that passed the physicals," The Marshall said. "Let's start with the Class Twos." Oculus began summarizing. "Dean Vanish age eleven; Ability: invisibility of self only; low marks; mild asthma. Elizabeth Bookchild, age eleven; Ability: pigmentation change at will; low marks; good health. Fanny Laker, age eleven; Ability: breath underwater; very low marks; allergic to bee stings and peanuts. Wane Willy, age eleven; Ability: luminescence; low marks; fair health." The Marshall hmmed again. "Not very promising. The Class Ones?" "Catarina Dole, age eleven; Ability: supersight; low marks; hard of hearing. Starling Bookchild, age twelve; Ability: resistance to injury and swift healing; very high marks; excellent health but with potential complications. Holland Bookchild, age eleven; Ability: vocal mimicry; low marks; good health. Tally Reed, age twelve; Ability: superhearing; average marks; fair health." "Bring up the Class One healer's full file." A quick tap revealed a picture of a pale, shyly smiling boy. Special notes dotted the file after almost every field of information. Oculus snorted. "Potential complications indeed. The boy can't take real blood infusions. Mutated antibodies." The Marshall chuckled. "As if anyone uses real blood transfusions anymore." Oculus agreed. "It's less problematic than allergies or asthma. Definitely less trouble than permanent superhearing." "So why hasn't the boy been hired? High marks alone open a multitude of opportunities." Oculus eyed the daunting number of special notes. "My guess? Nobody wanted to play the risk of other 'potential complications': preliminary screening found hundreds of abnormal gene combinations. All of the mutations should haven been expressed by late childhood, but when has logic ever appealed to the public?" The Marshall hurrumped. "And the superhearing girl?" Oculus scanned over the next file. "Nothing of interest." He met the Marshall's eyes with careful consideration. "Sir," he said. "We're not going to find anyone with better marks." The Marshall sighed. "I know, I know. But marks aren't everything." "Certainly," Oculus said sourly, "And neither is Talent." The Marshall regarded his tell-tale with flat eyes, and Oculus flinched. The younger man mostly managed to keep his past out of his work, but his superior never hesitated to call him out when he didn't. The tablet bleated an update. Oculus gladly grabbed the distraction. "Well, that certainly simplifies things," he commented dryly. A single status had changed. With Tally Reed already hired, Starling was the only logical choice. 


	5. Sun and Stars AU: Change

Starling stared into the bathroom mirror for a solemn moment and sighed. A pitifully young person gazed back: his baby pale, completely smooth skin, wide grey eyes, and slender features dropped years already in short supply. Red rimmed eyes, the product of jumbled, terrifying, almost-remembered dreams, didn't help in the slightest. Starling anxiously fingered a chocolate colored lock. Even the near silence and solitude did little to ease his post-nightmare jitters today. And it would be a miracle if got even a minute more in the crowded Marine Society. Sure enough, the pitter-patter of running feet demanded his attention. A snaggle toothed foundling named Gregory swung through the door. "Ms. Bloom says t' quit sulkin' an help wi' th' books," he said, all the S's whistling through his teeth. At eight years old, Gregory was already as tall as Starling. (Not that that was a particular feat.) A Class 2 with webbing between his fingers and toes and a rather useful Ability to breath underwater,and skin and hair the shinny carmel of a native outdoorsman, the River Guild had already vested its interest in his potential hire. "I'm coming," Starling listlessly replied. Labeling the outdated, actually-printed-on-paper books donated to the Marine Society promised, at best, a tedious, boring day. "Ms. Bloom says now," Gregory smirked. The younger ones ever sought an edge- any edge- over the elder foundlings. Starling knew Gregory would push his borrowed authority for as long as he possibly could. And Starling knew from cold, hard experience how far that could be to an odd Talent. We'll see about that, he thought in rare deviousness. As a life-long easy target, he'd discovered a few tricks to keep up his sleeve- no Talent required. "Of course," he said aloud. "And I'm certain she gave you permission to raid the kitchens before you came. That is how you got chocolate stuck in your teeth, right? From the chocolate cake for dinner?" Gregory's smirk melted like an ice cube in a sauna. Starling fought back a snicker: The kids, especially the greatly Talented, never thought to hide the seemingly less obvious evidence. Or considered what one find out by listening to the other foundlings. His vengeance secured, Starling left Gregory frozen and horrified. He would never tattle, of course, but the threat would serve well enough. Madame Opera's Marine Society had started out as a grand manor on a fashionable street in the heart of Boschenburg. All that remained from that time were the creaking wood and marble stairs and soaring ceilings. The small grounds had vanished as family debts pressed the ancestral owners harder and harder, transforming into streets and rows of houses. The bedrooms now housed six, sometimes seven or eight children each. The parlors became classrooms, and the library was stocked with donated children's books and tablets. Even the fashionable section of the city had worn away into rundown obscurity. Starling slipped through one of the few still carpeted halls, oddly nostalgic. He'd often imagined the old house in its younger glory, and what sort of debt could possibly nibble at a person's very home. His young mind had fashioned epic tales of frame-ups and thieves, family and loyalties. Discovering some of the previous landlord's... less than honorable activities had marked the end of his childhood, the end of naive wonderings. The library doors opened like welcoming arms- or a giant, toothless mouth, depending on whom one asked. Starling was of the first persuasion, the kind who looked to the books within as an escape instead of a prison. That the worst of his bullies despised the library remained mere icing on the figurative cake. There were a few exceptions to that appreciation, however. Ms. Bloom sat nearly buried in a book-alanche near the back shelves. A pit of dread opened in Starling's stomach. Standing tip-toed revealed several cardboard boxes behind her. Eep. The frizzy-haired woman looked up. Starling gulped, and obediently crept forward. "Finally," She breathed, and pointed to a cube. "Start with that box." "Yes ma'am," he said, counting the boxes with dread. Ten boxes. Ten boxes with approximately fifty books per box. Five hundred books of dubious condition to be labeled, recorded, and shelved. Starling waved all his free time for the next week or so goodbye. Sometimes he hated his reputation as the resident bookworm. A few days and several hours later, Starling spotted the messenger as he paused to rub crossing eyes. The little girl, barely old enough to even read, looked lost among the towering shelves of reference books. As she neared, he saw the yellow paper clutched in her grasp. Starling cautiously nudged Ms. Bloom's shoulder, well aware of her laser-like focus. "What?" The woman snapped, disoriented at the sudden interruption to her labeling. Starling pointed to the messenger-child. "Oh," she coughed, "What is it?" The girl cautiously handed over the paper. Starling began scribbling another title on the inventory sheet. Teachers, he knew, received all sorts of missives throughout the day. As a rather quick learner and notably well-behaved student, he delivered no few himself. None of them had been remotely interesting, as such notes were sent only because the Ethernet was notoriously spastic in the afternoon. "Madame Opera wants to see you," Ms. Bloom said as she set the sticky note on her clipboard. "Yes, ma'am," Starling startled, and started thinking about everything good or bad thing he'd ever, though he doubted even his last spat with Gosling warranted a visit with the Madame herself. The carpets gradually regained their plush colors the farther they were from the wear of hundreds of young feet. Even the muted, omnipresent noises of children going about their daily business faded in the staff's secret realm. Complete silenced reigned by the time Starling found the Madame's door. Quite unused to such absence of sound, he jumped at the clatter of his own knuckles against expensive wood. Social nicety completed, the boy hesitantly twisted the unusually ornate knob and entered. Madame Opera's office had once been a rather fashionable study. In some fit of fancy, she had left all the original furniture, but painted the walls a bubblegum pink. The effect was startling at first, but a second glance showed the color a pleasant contrast to the dark hues of the wood and upholstery. Starling never got a second glance, however. He was far too distracted by the stranger lounging in one of the most comfortable chairs, a man with startling crimson and blue eyes. 


	6. Sun and Stars AU: Hacker

Madame Opera had greeted the Lamplighter with coy smiles and flattering assertions. Oculus remembered a time when he'd longed for that kind of attention, that sort of status. He'd grown up a Class Zero in an era before the Class Discrimination Act, when Class Zeros had jobs only because there were more vacancies than applicants with Abilities. When he'd been offered a chance to improve his lot... he'd jumped, with no thought for the consequences. That had nearly cost him his life. Oculus wondered if he would have made the same choice if he'd known what he risked. He desperately wanted to say no, he would have stayed a humble Class Zero all of his days. In that dark corner of his heart... he thought yes, the power was worth everything. Starling did not have that sort of pride in his Talent. Actually, Oculus had ruefully thought, neither did anyone else. The second aspect had been immediately apparent. Madame Opera, while very impressed with Oculus's own talents, had quickly dismissed the boy's healing. "Oh," she'd said, "He does heal faster than normal... just fast enough to qualify as a Class One." The statement was followed by a disappointed sigh. Oculus was worldly enough to understand the new order. Once, Class Zeros had the worst prospects. Now that organizations had rather large quotas to fill and bonuses to file, Class Ones took the fall. That irked Oculus in a way he couldn't quite explain. True, healing a day or two faster than normal wasn't all that impressive. True, Talents, especially weaker Abilities, were becoming more and more common. Talent, or lack of Talent, couldn't replace perseverance, ingenuity, or morality. That was what recruiters should look for. If only it were that simple. "Lamplighters don't look at Talent alone, Madame," Oculus had guiltily dodged. Talent actually ranked third highest on every Lamplighter recruiter's checklist, right below sanity and absence of a criminal record. Lamplighters protected the roads from bandits, wolves, Monsters. They needed every edge they could get. Especially now that a good quarter of their forces had no Talent at all. But Oculus would gouge his own eyes out before he let his Lamplighters be chosen for Talent, and not ability. "That's good to hear," Madame Opera had preened, obviously glad to have this new connection. Oculus couldn't blame her. Marine Societies depended on the patronage of businesses, especially the navies for which they were named, which depended on the number of suitable employees. Every child apprenticed out meant more much needed money for the Society. "So you would like to arrange a meeting?" Madame Opera had asked hopefully. Oculus had nodded. "As soon as possible." He'd said. While most agencies relied on profiles alone, the Lamplighters weren't most. Madame Opera had then tapped a program open on her tablet. "I'm sure Mrs. Bloom can manage the books alone for an hour or two." - Cinnamon quietly withdrew from dreams not his own, ignoring the barest twinge of guilt. I should sleep soon, he thought as the living-wood ceiling of his hidey-hole blinked into view. Really sleep, not just hack into other people's REM waves. Not that that luxury seemed likely. Not if he meant to keep his little Starling out of sight and out of harm. Cinnamon sighed, and forced tired limbs into standing. Secret projects, he mused, did not lend themselves towards comfort- or rest. At least the Lamplighters would, for a time, make his self-imposed duties easier. Very, very few of the People dared venture into the Lamplighters' domain, and those who did were generally Outcast. And as dangerous as Outcast were to one's health... Unified they were not. So even if one discovered his little secret, the knowledge would not spread far beyond that individual. Cinnamon brushed a stray feather away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. With this project out of imminent danger, he should get back to his official duties. Sleep or no sleep. Sighing, he rubbed the still-smooth skin beneath his eyes and slipped away, leaving the Lamplighter to his dreams. 


	7. Sun and Stars AU: New Start

Starling woke from agitated sleep an hour before the beginning of the day. Icarus and Ichabod snored, as the twins did everything, in union, and Duran mumbled something about fish and a cheese grater in the sky. Fish... A fragment of dream surfaced. Flying purple fish skimming above the caustic waters of the unpurified sea. Starling grinned, ecstatic to have such a complete glimpse of his dream. Even as young child, his dreams had flickered with confusing ripples and starts, like old radio interference. By his tenth year, he had more "interference" than dreams. This was the first time he'd remembered cohesive bits of dream in months. Starling savored the sign of good things to come. Giddiness reacts rather strangely with stomach-clenching nervousness. Even the familiar feel of the thin sheets and blankets seemed unreal. Time itself conscripted to paradox, stretching for eons yet passing in moments. His last hour at the Marine Society passed without comment. He'd always risen with the dawn, to the bafflement of peers and instructors alike. His roommates made no effort this day to wake early enough to see him off. Thirty minutes before the first alarm sounded, Starling folded his sheets for the last time. His suitcase, the traditional tenth birthday present, stood at the foot of his bed, readied the night before. He finished his morning routine to the quiet sounds of sleeping dorms, and entered the kitchen just as Cookie walked in. The woman greeted him with a drowsy, "When'd ya ge-up?" and a yawn. Starling set on the staff's coffee pot as she shuffled out tins of powdered eggs and frozen sausage. Verline swept in with a stack of trays and the scents of sun and orange blossoms. The younger lady offered a cheerful smile and congratulations. "It's good to finally escape, huh," she said. "I'll miss you, though," Starling replied. Verline snorted. "It's called RealChat: Use it." Starling smiled. Starling ate early, in the kitchen. Cookie became quite amicable after her first cup of coffee, and cheerfully doled out portions of egg, sausage, and french toast. The unexpected- and unpreceeded- luxury of a quiet breakfast added to the surreality morning. Starling glanced at the clock, then his watch, and nearly said one of the older boys' favorite words, then dumped his tray into the sink. With a final farewell to and from Verline, he bolted. 


	8. Thewd and Threastles: A HP Fusion

Professor McGondal recognized her charge by the wide-eyed wonder common to all muggle-born first years, and his dull colored pullover and jeans. In an ordinary crowd, she was certain the boy would fade like a ghost. But, fortunately for her, Diagon Alley housed the absolute antithesis of an ordinary crowd. Rossamund Bookchild anxiously peered at the passersby, hands strangling the scroll the professor had given him the week before. Professor McGondal stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, pleased that he had the sensibility to sit where she could easily find him. Rossamund smiled, all tension abruptly gone, as he got up. No, she realized, the sensibility to sit where he could see her. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," she said, and the boy chirped back a polite thank-you-for-inviting-me. McGonal allowed her ever-stern features to soften into a rather stiff smile. These first meetings weren't always the best indicators of personality, but some Hugglepuffs were obviously meant to be. Tom bid them a good day, and Rossamund waved back with oddly restrained cheerful abandon. Professor McGondal offered a more subdued farewell, and they stepped out of the dingy pub. "We'll stop at Olivander's first. Finding a wand usually takes longest, and it will be the lightest thing to carry," she said. Rossamund nodded, even more wide-eyed, though he did not bounce with excitement. Barely. From Mr. Fransitart's and Mr. Crauplin's uneasy looks at the fragile decoratives in Madame Opera's parlor, she guessed it was a hard-broken habit. Or perhaps an early expression of magic- though she doubted his power would naturally manifest so destructively. Magic, after all, reflected personality more than anything else. Rossamund stopped a few feet away from the shop, as if catching faint strains of music. Professor McGongall allowed him without complaint. Knowing Olivander- and the nature of the wand selecting process- he very well might have heard something unusual. The boy lingered for only a few seconds before pensively following her into the dim shop. - Professor McGondal stared at the perfectly innocuous wand gripped loosely in her pupil's hand. Cherry wood and a strand of threstle mane twined with monster hair. Two omens of death, and a contrary core. Yet thin twigs sprouted and twined around the wood, budding tiny, fragrant blossoms, and wind whispered about their feet. Umbrage, she decided, must never know of this, whatever 'this' was, as the living branches sank back into polished wood. Rossamund just beamed as Olivander magiced the shop's chaos back into order. 


	9. T & T: Best of A Situation

Professor McGondal recognized her charge by the wide-eyed wonder common to all muggle-born first years, and his dull colored pullover and jeans. In an ordinary crowd, she was certain the boy would fade like a ghost. But, fortunately for her, Diagon Alley housed the absolute antithesis of an ordinary crowd. Rossamund Bookchild anxiously peered at the passersby, hands strangling the scroll the professor had given him the week before. Professor McGondal stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, pleased that he had the sensibility to sit where she could easily find him. Rossamund smiled, all tension abruptly gone, as he got up. No, she realized, the sensibility to sit where he could see her. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," she said, and the boy chirped back a polite thank-you-for-inviting-me. McGonal allowed her ever-stern features to soften into a rather stiff smile. These first meetings weren't always the best indicators of personality, but some Hugglepuffs were obviously meant to be. Tom bid them a good day, and Rossamund waved back with oddly restrained cheerful abandon. Professor McGondal offered a more subdued farewell, and they stepped out of the dingy pub. "We'll stop at Olivander's first. Finding a wand usually takes longest, and it will be the lightest thing to carry," she said. Rossamund nodded, even more wide-eyed, though he did not bounce with excitement. Barely. From Mr. Fransitart's and Mr. Crauplin's uneasy looks at the fragile decoratives in Madame Opera's parlor, she guessed it was a hard-broken habit. Or perhaps an early expression of magic- though she doubted his power would naturally manifest so destructively. Magic, after all, reflected personality more than anything else. Rossamund stopped a few feet away from the shop, as if catching faint strains of music. Professor McGongall allowed him without complaint. Knowing Olivander- and the nature of the wand selecting process- he very well might have heard something unusual. The boy lingered for only a few seconds before pensively following her into the dim shop. - Professor McGondal stared at the perfectly innocuous wand gripped loosely in her pupil's hand. Cherry wood and a strand of threstle mane twined with monster hair. Two omens of death, and a contrary core. Yet thin twigs sprouted and twined around the wood, budding tiny, fragrant blossoms, and wind whispered about their feet. Umbrage, she decided, must never know of this, whatever 'this' was, as the living branches sank back into polished wood. Rossamund just beamed as Olivander magiced the shop's chaos back into order. 


End file.
